


Reindeer Games

by Yiichi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Arguing, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:11:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yiichi/pseuds/Yiichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale doesn't like Christmas. And now that he and Stiles live together, he has to contend with his lover's enthusiasm for his least favorite holiday. Not to mention there's tinsel on his coffee mug.</p><p>You can find me at <a href="http://yijitumbles.tumblr.com/">my Tumblr</a> here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frost

“I think you’re overdoing it.”

Sitting on the plush leather couch that still smelled new, Derek Hale watched with (mild) dread as his boyfriend, one Stiles Stilinski, wrestled madly with a pine tree in the corner of their lounge room. Somehow, he was attempting to beat it into submission with a homemade garland of popcorn, effectively spraying their carpet with needles and bits of tinsel. He couldn’t fault the younger man for being excited, but while he did take pleasure in his delighted, cheer-filled face, he frowned dourly at the mess on the floor. God, he hated vacuuming.

“Suck it up for now, Sourwolf,” Stiles puffed, wobbling on the stepladder, the baubles on the large tree trembling precariously under the rough handling. “We’re doing Christmas Stilinski-style this year.” His job finally complete, he clapped his hands together with a satisfied finality and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Well, the tree looked slightly frenzied, covered with decorations as such, but it made the place feel more like a home, rather than an apartment. When they’d first moved in, the entire place made minimalists look like an episode of Hoarders by comparison. And now that he’d been here two months, it felt much less threadbare, more inviting. Still, the werewolf thought as he rose from his spot on the couch to stand beside his lover, there was no way he would admit to that.

“I think it looks great,” Stiles mused, more to himself than to the dour-looking man beside him. Derek’s muscled arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and he glared at the garishly-festooned tree as though he’d like nothing more than to pick it up by its stand and hurl it out the window. “Stiles, I know you like Christmas and all,” he spoke, his words coming out low and slightly steely, “But did you have to make such a huge mess of the place?” As if to punctuate the sentence, he waved an irritable hand to the rest of the apartment, scattered with pine needles, rogue baubles, trinkets, garlands and streamers. Describing it as ‘festive’ would be equal to describing the Pacific Ocean as a puddle.

“Look, Christmas was always a big thing with dad and I,” Stiles shrugged, a lopsided grin pulling at the sides of his lips. “You are being a veritable Grinch. And, to be perfectly honest, a little holiday cheer wouldn’t go amiss. I mean, since I hadn’t lived here before, I had to improvise my usual decorating style,” he nodded at the stockings hung over the radiator proudly, “But I still think the place turned out a treat, don’t you?”

“Ugh, Jesus Christ – Just – Do whatever you want.” The bigger man sighed, turning away from the eyesore and rubbing at a temple with his fingertips. Stiles had been at this for days – decorating every square inch of the apartment with the frenzied air of a madman, his resolve only intensifying with when Derek told him he didn’t ‘do’ Christmas. It was a touchy subject, one he didn’t care to delve too deeply into, but one would think that after two-plus years of dating, Stiles would get a freaking clue and drop the subject, or better still, talk to him about it. And instead, here he was, feeling like a scruffy bear in the middle of a goddamn Elf Town, and there was tinsel on his coffee mug.

Tinsel. On his coffee mug. And it was purple.

“Why is there – oh, forget it,” he muttered sourly, ripping off the offending bling and draining his stone-cold, forgotten coffee. He could understand Stiles’ enthusiasm, but sometimes he wondered whether it truly would be easier ripping him to shreds and ending this war against good taste. But, in hindsight, he thought to himself, he did have a pretty amazing set of lips, to that sort of made up for having to live in tinsel land. At least for a few weeks, anyway.

“I think we might need a bigger wreath for the door,” Stiles mused, unpacking a plastic evergreen wreath decorated with fake berries and pomegranates. Derek quickly set the empty mug down on the counter-top before he bit off a chunk of porcelain and swallowed it. “Absolutely not,” he snapped, pointing at the offending wreath from across the room, voice firm. “You’re practically turning our place into Santa’s Village, and I swear to god if you put anything bigger on the door than what you’re holding in your hands, they’ll have to sift through the snowdrifts outside to find the rest of you.”

“I sense that you may be overreacting just a touch,” Stiles smirked, tossing the offending object onto the couch and picking his way carefully across the lounge room to join Derek. He stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, touching his fingertips against Derek’s wrist. “What’s the problem here?”

“My _problem_ , Stiles,” the older werewolf growled, trying to keep his anger despite the soothing touch threatening to take it away, “Is that there are popcorn kernels and pine needles all over the floor-”

“Which I’ll vacuum in a minute.”

“ –And paper everywhere-”

“I’ll throw it out right after I vacuum.”

“ –And you put purple tinsel on my coffee mug? Why the hell?”

“I don’t even remember doing that.” Stiles’ face was a picture of innocence, and Christ, Derek swore that at any moment he’d pop out a halo and glow around the edges. “Look, once I clean up the packaging and put the boxes away and get rid of the trash, everything will look awesome. Trust me, you’ll really like it, okay?” Swiping his thumb over Derek’s wrist bone tenderly, Stiles leaned over the counter and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’m done, anyway, no more decorations to put up.”

“No more?” Derek muttered morosely, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Because I don’t think I can handle seeing any more takes on the red-and-green colour combo without actually seeing red, and that’s usually followed by maiming of some kind.”

“Scout’s honour,” came the grinned reply, a cross over his heart sealing the promise. “Now, I feel like taking a break from decorating. How about we put this anger of yours to good use in bed?”

 

-

 

“What’s in the box?” Derek asked, looking over his magazine at the other’s grinning face. Stiles had just returned from a visit to his dad’s, and was shucking off his winter coat with a delighted air, a small cardboard box tucked under his arm protectively.

“Dad says hi,” Stiles replied, putting the box on the kitchen counter and unwinding his scarf. “He just gave me a couple of things for the apartment. He’d never let me touch them when I was younger, but he says that since we have the decorations up, and he’s not really bothering too much this year, that we could-”

“Hang on a moment.” Derek was out of his chair, stalking forwards, his mood nosediving. “Are those even more decorations?”

“Well…” Stiles pursed his lips and nodded his head to one side, “Technically, you could call them-”

“Stiles. You _promised_ me you were done with the decorating.” The older man’s voice was a low, dissatisfied grumble, something sharp twisting in his stomach – Stiles was going back on a promise, and it made him feel cheated. “I told you I didn’t want to decorate the apartment, but you did it anyway. And even with the trash cleaned up, there’s so much stuff everywhere that I can’t even think straight half the time.” The odour of the pine needles and plastic decorations were wreaking havoc on his heightened sense of smell, and he’d been on edge ever since the thing went up a week ago. “And now, you’re telling me that you brought even _more_ junk home?”

“These ones are important,” his lover replied, hands reaching outwards, placating.

“That’s what you were saying about the rest of the shit when you were putting it up!”

“If that’s how you feel, then I’ll take it down,” Stile’s voice was calm, soothing, which only made his temper spike, flaring behind his temples like embers.

“You’re not even _listening_ to me, are you?” he snapped, the volume of his voice rising with frustrated anger. “This whole Christmas bullshit thing has made you oblivious to everything else, and I’m not just talking about the goddamn decorations!” He gestured with his magazine angrily at the box on the countertop, his eyes focused on Stiles’ face too intently to judge the distance properly. The rolled-up periodical hit it square-on, and the carton went flying, landing feet away on the kitchen’s tiled floor with an ominous sound of crunching glass. Blinking, Derek only caught a glimpse of the other’s face, his lips parted in horror and face ashen, before Stiles dodged around the counter and dropped to his knees on the floor, box in his hands.

Derek didn’t move from his position for a moment, his anger completely dissipated as he watched his lover’s shoulders, tense as he opened the packaging with hurried care. The atmosphere in the room had changed completely, and he could feel – no, smell – palpable fear. When he finally did shift, he walked over to Stiles, whose natural scent was permeated with distress. From where he stood, he could see the contents of the box in Stiles’ hands now – two little glass reindeer, one with antlers and a small, kneeling calf, little bigger than half his palm. Their bubble wrap was on the ground, still intact, next to a wad of tissue paper. And, amongst the torn tissue and between Stile’s fingers, were the broken pieces of a third. Even from his position, he could see the silver antlers on the shattered one were smaller than the first, obviously male deer. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Derek suddenly knew whose decoration that must have been.

“Stiles-” he began, reaching a hand out. With a jerk, Stiles slapped it away, rising from the floor hurriedly and dashing past Derek as though he wasn’t even there. “Stiles, wait-” he tried again, even as the other grabbed his scarf and coat again, pulling them on as he stomped to the front door.

“Don’t, Derek.” The reply came, cutting through the air between them like a knife. The finality of it felt like a punch in his stomach, and the werewolf could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot as his lover met his eyes from the doorway, narrowed in disgust. “Just… don’t.” And just like that, he turned and was gone, the slam of the front door echoing through his very bones.


	2. Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to TobyRosetta, because you're totally my sweetcheeks <3
> 
> (Is it wrong that I enjoyed writing part 2 a lot more than part 1?)
> 
> Merry Christmas everybody, and a happy New Year! <3

Loneliness.

That was what he felt. But it was a different type of loneliness from what he’d grown so accustomed to for so many years. Derek sprawled listlessly over the couch, staring into the nothingness above him. He’d barely moved from that spot for two days, and the decorations in the apartment were untouched, and all wrong.

Stiles still hadn't come home.

His loneliness was a palpable force, as though his chest was constricting. It wasn’t just because his boyfriend wasn’t near him. It was because he’d left. Of his own volition. The loneliness he’d endured for so long was at least somewhat manageable after a time, because he’d eventually come to terms with the fact that the people around him had been taken away from him by force. But here he was, two days without seeing hair nor hide of the other young man. And it really fucking hurt.

He should have gone after him. Why hadn't he? An idiotic, rational part of his mind had convinced him to stand rooted to the spot after the door had slammed shut, give Stiles some time to calm himself, some distance. He was an idiot, that’s what he was, he mused as a defeated exhale escaped his lips. He should have told his rational-thinking brain to take a hike and listened to his base instinct, his inner-wolf, to claw his way outside and drag him back in. And then… well, what exactly would he have done? Lick his wounds so they stopped hurting? He’d been bristling with indignant, righteous anger after he’d left. It had been an accident, after all – he hadn't meant to swat the box onto the floor, break that stupid little ornament.

Heaving himself off the couch, he lumbered into the kitchen to pour himself more coffee. The box remained in the exact same position, icicles of glass scattered around it. He’d skirted around the cardboard container since, pretending it wasn’t there, as if perhaps ignoring the cause of their argument could somehow make it go away. But the box was still there, and Stiles wasn’t. And it hurt him more than he cared to admit.

Putting another pot on to brew, he plucked the wireless telephone from the receiver and dialled Stiles’ cellphone again, at least the fiftieth time in two days. It had always rung out, or gone to voicemail. He’d never left any messages. And, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, as he heard nothing but silent ringing, he knew that it was a futile attempt. He couldn’t go outside and track him down using his wolf instincts. Stiles would get really pissed off. He’d say that he cheated. And they’d fight again.

“Hello?”

A voice on the other end made Derek’s eyes fly open, his heart hammering in his throat (when had that started to happen?). But the voice on the other end, tinny from the connection, wasn’t Stiles, but-

“Scott? Where’s Stiles?”

The question came out more demanding than he’d meant, harsher, and it surprised him how wrung-out he sounded. Scott on the other end sighed, a sound that made his hackles rise, feeling patronised by a mere pup. “He’s not here, Derek. He’s been staying over at mine, but he’s out.”

“He’s… out.” The words came out flat, parroted back with disappointment.

“Yeah. He left his phone behind. Look, I don’t know what you guys fought about -”

“It’s none of your business, Scott, so butt out.” Derek snapped, his voice deep with a menacing growl, an Alpha protecting his personal interest.

“It _is_ my business, because Stiles is _my best friend_ ,” came the reply, as cold as the icicles outside the living-room window, “And I don’t know what happened, but he’s really upset. He hasn’t said a word to me about anything, and coming from Stiles, that’s a really big deal.”

“I don’t need you to tell me-”

“I don’t _care_ what you think I should tell you or not, Derek.” Scott’s voice, if possible, dropped another ten degrees, cutting him off mid-sentence. “But just because you act like an emotionally stunted plank of wood doesn’t mean that you can treat others like their feelings don’t matter. Now, _if_ Stiles decides to talk to you again, _he’ll_ contact _you_. In the meantime, stop calling and give him some space, or I’ll take this phone and drop it down the closest sewer. And I mean it.”

The other end clicked shut with finality, and Derek stood rigidly, backside against the kitchen counter, hearing the drone of the dial tone. Dumbly, he put the phone down on the end of the counter, away from him, before he gave into the temptation to fling the blasted thing against the nearest hard surface. His hand gripped tightly around something hard, trembling with the barely-controlled urge to crush it into powder between his fingers. Looking down, he saw what he held – his coffee mug. It was a cheap, dollar-store mug, but Stiles had given it to him on the first day they’d moved in together, a housewarming present of sorts. Thinking about his anchor calmed him down a little, and he took the empty cup in both hands, staring down at it. He’d remembered Stile’s finely-featured face, the bow of his lips curling upwards in a delighted grin as he’d presented him with a badly-wrapped parcel, all flourishes and crumpled-up wrapping paper taped awkwardly together. He ran his thumb over the silly black paw-print on the white porcelain, that at the time had made him roll his eyes, receiving a huffy look back, before his lover had dissolved into laughter.

 _‘I’ve grown stupidly fond of this damn mug’_ , he thought bitterly as he remembered Stiles laying against him that first night, cheek pressed against Derek’s chest as their fingers and legs tangled together, their bedroom still filled with unopened boxes ( _“Our home,”_ he’d whispered again and again, making something strangely warm bloom in the werewolf’s chest). His chest constricted even more as he set the mug down on the counter, brushing the small, uneven line of the handle with his fingertips. When Stiles dropped the mug, he’d been so upset about it at the time and he’d glued it back together on the kitchen table. Somehow the younger man had managed to glue the heel of his hand to the wood, and they’d laughed about it for the longest time afterwards, and every so often while reading the newspaper or sitting there idly wasting time Derek had found himself tracing the slightly-rough residue of glue with his own palm. He shook his head, hard. No, he’d grown stupidly fond of Stiles, he told himself as his eyes settled on the box against the kitchen tiles. And he had to find a way to make it right somehow.

 

 

-

 

He hadn't expected the sound of the bolts sliding open in the front door less than an hour later. Palms flat against the wood of the table, Derek stared hard at the entrance as Stiles walked through it. The youth’s face was as carefully blank as his own, a controlled canvas free of emotion, despite the cold from outside making the tip of his nose and ears pink. Derek strained his senses, felt his throat tighten when Stiles’ heartbeat sounded normal, nonplussed. Why was that? Especially when his own pulse felt as though it was racing through his veins? He didn’t move an inch as Stiles walked over, his hands still in his coat pocket and lower face rugged up in his scarf, even if his palms, crusty with superglue residue, itched to reach out and touch him, confirm his presence.

“Hey,” Stiles murmured through his scarf, not meeting his eyes as he stood beside the table, looking down. The newspaper on it was a mess, crumpled awkwardly here and there from Derek’s clumsy handiwork as he’d glued the pieces of the little deer back together as carefully as he could, only just finished. The glue was still wet, and the little ornament still had cracks, but it had been the best he could do.

“Hey,” he replied, his eyes not once leaving Stiles. It was only now that he was back that the full extent of Derek’s loneliness truly hit home. Stiles wasn’t just a boyfriend, a casual fling. He was his mate. And he’d missed him more than he could bear. Silence stretched between them, awkward and uncomfortable, and Stiles pulled down the edge of his scarf away from his nose with a crooked finger, fiddling with the wool under his chin.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, gaze fixed to the half-mauled tube of superglue on the newspaper, completely out of nowhere, which surprised them both and made Stiles’ eyes snap to him. “I didn’t mean to break your mother’s ornament. I didn’t know what was in the box, and it was an accident.”

“Okay,” Stiles’ answer came back, impassive.

“Look, it’s just – It’s not about the decorations, okay? We’ve only been living together a couple of months. And this is our first technical Christmas together. I was – I’m afraid.” He swallowed thickly, avoiding looking at anything altogether except the wood of the table. He ran a thumb against another splatter of superglue he’d managed to drip. “I never had a reason to celebrate Christmas for the longest time. Without the rest of my family, Laura and I just felt empty, even though we tried so hard to stick together. And then when Laura was gone, there just – there wasn’t any reason to celebrate holidays, or birthdays, or Christmas.” The words were coming out of their own accord now, unfiltered by days of coffee and misery. “And then you come along and change everything for me, and it scares the shit out of me, because suddenly there’s someone I really care about. And all the bad stuff that I’d been focusing my existence on just feels smaller and more insignificant compared to the good stuff that’s happening now, and I feel like – I feel like, well, what happens if one day you go away too? Like one day you leave, or you’re taken away, and then if that happens…” He looked up at Stiles now, the words thick in his throat and the pain clear in his face. “If you’re gone, there won’t be a reason to celebrate. There won’t be a reason for anything anymore, not for me.”

He couldn’t talk anymore, which was an alright thing, because he could have sworn that Stiles’ heart had skipped a little beat then, and now it was beating just that tiny bit faster. And then Stiles was sitting on the edge of the table, running his hand through Derek’s short, dark hair and wearing an expression that just screamed _‘jeez, you are so lame’_. And when he leaned forward to kiss Derek, everything just seemed all right again, and the tightness in his throat was replaced by warmth that enveloped the rest of his body, from his nose to the soles of his feet.

“I forget how ridiculously adorable you can get sometimes,” Stiles murmured, his voice soft between them and his smile unfurling against the werewolf’s lips like the petals of a flower, altogether gone too soon when he pulled back. "Look... I'm sorry too. I should have taken your feelings into consideration as well, rather than just ploughing along with my own decisions. I got so swept up in wanting to make this holiday something of ours that I forgot you might not have had the best experiences with it before. So... for what it's worth, I'm sorry." He scratched his head, looking sheepish. “And yeah, you know, I was pretty mad at you for a while. But I know you didn’t mean to do it, plus you’re legitimately sorry for it, so it’s okay. And I think that fighting’s something all couples do – even werewolf and human ones – and it just kind of makes everything better in the end. I mean,” he glanced down at the little deer, tapping it gently with a fingertip. “A broken bone becomes stronger when it heals. And I’m not going anywhere, even if sometimes you have the emotional understanding of a toothbrush, and you really piss me off. You’re stuck with me for life, buddy.” He pulled a little paper package out of his jacket pocket and set it in front of the older man, waiting. “I hope you don’t think that breaking my stuff will equate to you getting presents from now on, because that’d mean some serious reconditioning training on your part.”

Derek hesitated for a moment, until Stiles nodded with his chin, urging him on. Unwrapping the paper, he found a glass ornament inside, not as dainty as the deer, but close enough to make it into the set. It was a wolf.

“It took me forever to find something like that, especially in Beacon Hills, the land of shitty retail during Christmas,” Stiles waved his head offhandedly, dismissively, but then his expression grew soft, in the way that he looked at Derek every day that made his shoulders lighter. “But you and I are family now, so I figured this would be a nice thing to bring out in the following Christmases to come.”

Derek had no more words to say, because he was too busy scooping Stiles up into his arms, yanking off his jacket and kissing him deeply. And his brain was bouncing around inside his head like a firecracker, because Stiles was wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him back, and he’d said ‘ _Christmases_ ’ with a plural, which surely meant more than two years now, and they were _family_. He grinned into the kiss, elated. Christmas was going to be one of his favourite holidays from now, he was sure of it.

 

 

-

 

“So I know I’m not entirely forgiven just yet,” he sighed against Stiles’ hair in bed, tracing whorls with his fingertips on his bare back. “Because I know you, and you’ll probably have some sort of sick revenge planned for me.”

“You’re right on the money, sweet cheeks,” came the reply, Stiles’ palm flat against Derek’s abdomen. “Tomorrow we’re going shopping, and you’re going to buy, with my expert choice, the ugliest, vilest Christmas sweater known to man. And wearing it at Scott and Allison’s Christmas Eve do.”

“And if I don’t?” Derek groaned back.

“I’ll buy you a Christmas thong, and you’ll have to wear that under your slacks to the party instead.”

“… duly noted. At least let me pick the sweater colour?”

“Not a chance.”


End file.
